The Dance by Barkha and Pavan

Ranu Singh Taragi

The onset of the monsoons is awaited eagerly by the tea growing belt and brings with it the promise of prosperity for the tea gardens. Tea bushes bloom, leaf count picks up and every department, right from field, factory and head office becomes extremely busy. The dry spell is over, there is an abundance of ‘patti’ and the engines in the factory hum, 24x7!

On the home front, the bungalows too gear up to offer hospitality to advisors, engineers and technical staff who visit from time to time in order to facilitate the smooth running of the estate. So this time also severely tests the culinary innovativeness of the ‘memsahibs.’ One knows only so many ways to serve seasonal veggies like ‘patals, jhinga, lauki…’ in exotic preparations! If you are fortunate to be closely located to a busy commercial town, the food choices are plenty. However, in remote areas, one has to turn into a ‘master chef.’ Planning out the daily menus at times like this becomes a major occupation. 

 Endless rain also brings in other problems peculiar to each district. We were once stationed on a tea garden adjacent to the Kaziranga Park. There the surrounding ‘basti’ gets totally cut off, due to water-logged,low-lying fields. The estate then brings out boats, to ferry the workers, to and fro, for daily work.

Areas in Cachar, close to the Bangladesh border, face storms which have cyclonic fury. The lightning flashes are blinding and thunder rocks the ground. In some instances, when a cyclone is expected from the Bay of Bengal, it travels inland bringing destruction. The weather department estimates the expected time of the storm and warns residents in advance. Sometimes loudspeaker announcements help to spread the word. We’ve witnessed this in the town of Silchar.

No matter how welcome the rain is for the tea, while the storm rages, ‘Barkha' and 'Pavan’s’ abandoned dance often results in roofs being ripped off, factory sheds collapsing and trees being twisted and thrust out of the way, by our star performers. So when peace returns, tea planters face the added work of supervising repair and relief work.

Our dog, Simba, felt safest here!

During our stay in Cachar we faced many such storms. At times like this, meals would be cooked in advance and all windows and doors secured. The bungalow staff would leave early so as to reach their own homes safely. The only person inside, besides us, would be an ‘indoors’ chowkidar, and he would then take charge of the kitchen.

In the year 1993, if I’m correct, we witnessed terribly severe rains. The downpour continued for days on end, resulting in floods. Bridges in the Kalchini and Hasimara area crashed, trees were uprooted, and  garden culverts overflowed so it became risky to cross them. Numerous villages along the embankment of the Toorsa and Basra rivers had to be evacuated in haste. Local schools shut down for a long period. Our children, who studied in Binnaguri’s St.James High School, missed classes for almost a month!

In this grim situation, life struggled to gain some normalcy. Each tea garden tried to function as best as it could, in spite of delays in the delivery of rations and other supplies. Of course, the weekly garden bazaar continued to be the highlight after each ‘wage day.’

We were living on Dalsingpara Tea Estate, in West Bengal. A couple of engineers sent down from Kolkata were staying in our bungalow, and I certainly wanted a happy and cheerful kitchen staff. I was also counting on Pramod, our cook, to do some vegetable shopping for our own kitchen, but as I listed our requirements, he heard me with a glum face. When I enquired, he shared his apprehensions regarding the payment day. First, he had to pay his contribution to some ‘local chanda’, which would be collected outside the office, (so there was no escaping it), secondly, he had to pay back a loan to a friend.

“Kya bachega bazaar ke liye,” he lamented gloomily. He headed to the garden office to collect his wages while I kept my fingers crossed, hoping that he’d be back in time for dinner preparations.

Though the rainfall had stopped, the sky was still heavily overcast. As I sipped a cup of tea in the ‘Jali Kamra’, I could imagine the weekly bazaar in the vast field behind the office. Small shops would have been set up under brightly coloured plastic awnings all around the area. The workers would splish-splash their way there happily, as they haggled over prices, for the whole area was still water-logged. Now and then, a louder babble of voices wafted over the cool dampness of the breeze.

A different sound reached my ears… the sound of a helicopter flying overhead. This was not unusual because the Hasimara Air Force Base was close by. Judging from the sound, it was quite low - probably due to the clouds. Reacting to the sighting of this flying machine, now louder, excited shouts could be heard.

A while later, Pramod returned. His countenance was totally transformed. Beaming from one ear to the other, he held aloft two bulging bags. The first one, I gathered, contained the vegetables for the bungalow kitchen. Eyeing the second bag, I commented that despite his misgivings regarding the wages, he seemed to have done well for his own home.

‘Arrey  memsahib, Bazar akash sae aya!’ (The shopping came from the sky.) He pulled out a couple of neatly tied packages, which mystified me. I sniffed the air to check if he was sober!

The explanation came later when the men came home from office. Packages containing relief items, puffed rice, biscuits etc. had indeed rained down from the sky. It transpired that the helicopter was out on a mission to drop off relief material in flood affected areas. Noticing the makeshift structures of our garden bazaar, it had mistaken it for a relief camp!! Hence the bombardment of supplies, much to the delight of the startled workers.

Many of the packets were salvaged by staff members and chowkidars, directed by the management. These were returned to the Air base for re-distribution to ‘genuine’ relief camps. However, quite a few of the workers rushed away with the packets! I guess a number of families munched on the goodies for dinner.

The rains continued unabated for a long period. Not all the damage could be set right completely. But for a long time, the sight and sound of an overhead helicopter made the residents of Dalsingpara glance up hopefully!

 In some instances, the dance by Barkha and Pavan can result in happy surprises!

 Editor's Note :

'Barkha' means rain, and it is also a name - a feminine name. 

'Pavan' means wind, and it is also a masculine name.
'patti' - tea leaf

‘patals, jhinga, lauki…’ - ivy gourd, ridge gourd and bottle gourd

'chanda' - money collected - often perforce - as subscription by unions and other groups

Meet the writer: Ranu Singh Taragi

Ranu Singh Taragi, with her husband Naresh

Ranu lives in Dehradun with her tea planter husband Naresh. They moved there after almost three decades in the tea gardens of Dooars and Assam. Ranu has been writing since her college days, and her stories for children have been published in 'Children's World' Magazine and the Hindustan Times. 

Read all Ranu's stories on Indian Chai Stories here: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/Ranu%20Singh%20Taragi  

Ranu wrote the first post on this blog, Freshly Brewed and Packaged Beautifully   

Train of Thought : A Comedy of Errors

by Shalini Mehra

 

Almost at a sprint and out of breath we reached the platform only to see the fading lights of the last bogie of the train.

‘Not again’, I told myself. Luckily, we were not boarding. 

We had arrived at Tinsukia station well in time to receive my parents, aunt, brothers and sisters, most of them on their first trip to Assam.  Though they were booked to Dibrugarh, we had planned to receive them at Tinsukia so as to save them an extra hour on the train. But it was too late now. Once back on the highway we sped up to keep pace with the train. This was well before the days of insulated AC compartments and we hoped someone from the family would peep out of the train window and spot us. Our four-year-old son Vicky, unable to contain his excitement, was literally hanging out of the car window in anticipation of some fun; while our good old Ambassador rattled ahead trying to catch up with the train which had now  gathered speed.

It is very interesting to see how closely parallel the train track and national highway run for a distance of almost 48 kilometers from Tinsukia to Dibrugarh, so much so that at certain points one can easily shake hands with the passengers on the train. But on this evening the sky was overcast with dark clouds, resulting in poor visibility. We had raced up and then slowed down, covering the length of the moving train, to sight a familiar face; but most of the shutters were closed. Disappointed and reconciled to a long drive to Dibrugarh, we carried on.  

My mind was racing back in time to the day, a month back, when I had received a letter confirming my family’s travel plans - but the much awaited telegram had never arrived. Apprehensions grew whether they were on the train or not. Had they changed their minds?

The year was 1977 and we were posted at Oaklands – a little Eden on the banks of the Brahmaputra. The out garden was tucked away in a corner, a place where telephones were hardly ever functional, roads rarely motorable. Despite the unpredictable communications we had confirmed the arrival time from the railway inquiry through a friend. However, taking no chances, we had arrived at Tinsukia well in time, only to be told that the train was two hours late. Taking advantage of the time, we proceeded to have a cup of tea in town with a friend. The hostess had barely poured tea in the cups when the hoot of an engine sounded and our friend, living in close vicinity of the station for years, exclaimed with surety, “I think that’s your train.”

Leaving our cups untouched we hurried towards the station but by the time we meandered through the traffic and parked, considerable time had elapsed. We had missed the train, and this was not the first time - but that is another story. It is a fact that till air travel improved and the broad gauge was installed, no one - I repeat no one - from outside Assam reached us on a personal visit without a hitch.

To continue, as if in response to little Vicky’s prayers, as we crossed Dikom Station (no halt) I saw my sister looking out from her compartment window and at the same moment she spotted us. One by one more shutters were rolled up and beaming faces of my younger siblings grinned at us. What excitement ensued! We were all waving, laughing and singing a la Rajesh Khanna from the Bollywood blockbuster ‘Aradhana’.  This continued Dikom onwards till the rail track and the road parted as we neared Dibrugarh town. By the time we reached the platform the train was chugging in and screeching to a halt. Well, all’s well that ends well. A ‘miss’ at Tinsukia earlier had resulted in great fun. All of us still treasure the memory of that journey with nostalgia and affection.  

Another incident took place much earlier in 1973, the year we got married and I came to Salonah in Nowgong district. A clerk from my father-in-law’s office was visiting Assam and was carrying a parcel of mangoes. The exotic king of fruits was a rare commodity in Assam then.

His journey brought him very close to his destination but not close enough. At the railway inquiry office in Guwahati he showed our postal address and was thrilled to see the name of Salona station on the rail chart. Salona was a small railway station, very close to Salonah tea garden, where one local passenger and one goods train would arrive every day. 

Secured with this information he boarded the only train to his destination. The Metro-city man, expecting a cemented platform with regular information announcements, porters to carry luggage and auto-rickshaws in waiting, was in for the shock of his life. He found that he was the only passenger who had got down at Salona. There was no platform and just a small shack for an office. A single beam of light emerging from it barely penetrated the darkness that had descended very early.  

Dragging his own suitcase and the mango parcel he somehow walked up to the cabin to find a solution for his colossal problem - where was Salonah tea garden and how could he reach it? But no words answered him. Only a finger pointed towards one direction. 

He dragged himself a little further ahead and saw a man on a bicycle carrying a cane basket piled with dozens of raw bananas. On inquiry he was once again given a direction but no manual help to carry his luggage. With a pounding heart he waited, wondering what to do next. Moments dragged on; his imagination playing tricks on him started to cast shadows of prowling wild life in the darkness and a shiver crept through his body. 

After what seemed ages but was only a few minutes, he saw another man - and as luck would have it, it was a Salonah garden labourer. On hearing the familiar name ‘Rajan Mehra’ he immediately paid his customary obeisance, ‘Salaam sahib’ and offered to carry the parcel and guide him to our bungalow.  

Thus arrived on our doorstep our first visitor from Delhi, very shaky and stressed out indeed but with the mango parcel intact. Years later I came to know that he would regale the entire office staff with his exaggerated version of the story in which the imaginary prowling animal became a real one.

Meet the writer: Shalini Mehra

I can neither boast of any career, nor of great feats; yes, a tag of gypsy is befitting as all through my life I have been wandering from one interest to another, returning home to one, then moving to new pastures. To use the cliché, I have been ‘Jack of all and Master of none’. The best part is that I have enjoyed the freedom of expressing myself through different mediums, be it music, dance, cooking, gardening, flower arranging or making dry flower frames, reading and writing. The last was always a moody muse till The Camellia happened.

During my wanderings I stumbled upon an idea when the new age of internet dawned upon the backwoods of the tea plantations. Life in tea has been unusual, very often bordering to inconceivable, and those real-life stories, so often almost fictional, needed to be told. The idea took a shape and thus the first ever Tea Planters’ Interclub magazine ‘The Camellia’, ‘for the planters, by the planters, of the planters’ was born in the sanctum sanctorum of my study. Thus, began the journey with pangs and pleasures of the birth and rearing up of my brainchild. If that can be called a milestone, it was surely one for me.

It makes me so proud that during this journey I made a lot of friends who shared my passion and extended their help. And Gowri Mohanakrishnan, moving with the times, took a step further and created ‘Indian Chai Stories’ - the tea stories blog. I extend my wholehearted support and best wishes to her.

Is this your first visit here? Welcome to Indian Chai Stories! Do you have a chai story of your own to share? Send it to me here, please : indianchaistories@gmail.com.

My name is Gowri Mohanakrishnan and I'm a tea planter's wife. I started this blog because one of the things that I wouldn't want us to lose in a fast changing world is the tea story - a story always told with great seriousness, no matter how funny - always true (always), maybe a tall tale, long, or short, impossible, scary, funny or exciting but never dull. 

Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!

The Three Legged Terror of Santula Busty - Part II

Krupa David

It soon got dark and I knew that it was a waste of time sitting up much longer. I  got down stiffly with all my paraphernalia and trudged back to the village, keeping my gun ready and my flashlight shining in all directions.

My good Ignesh by now had boiled a kerosene tin of water and I had myself a nice wash (although I would have loved a hot soak in my tub back at the Hope Bungalow!) Being a hot evening in May, there was no campfire! However, I forgot to mention the most important item in my kit on such occasions - and that is a bottle of good old XXX Rum!! I poured myself a drink and gave Ignesh his quota in a mug .Two drinks and I was feeling mildly sedated and at peace with the world! However, the thoughts of the little girl and her grieving parents upset me a lot and I determined to get this leopard. The two coir rope charpoys were not the most comfortable of beds, but next I knew was Ignesh standing over me with a hot cup of tea!

It was six a.m. and I was in no hurry to get out of ‘bed’! Ignesh had the fire going and a frying pan sputtered on the flame. We decided to spend the day reconnoitering the country side, hoping against hope to find out a cave or a jumble of rocks where this leopard hung out. As he was so localized I was sure that he had a nice snug hideout.

We had been walking around for about three hours and we had seen no sign of any cave or anything like a hideout. We returned to the village to a lunch of a fiery hot chicken curry and rice that our host had prepared for us!After lunch we packed up our kit and trudged the five km back to the car, having told the villagers to report immediately of any further kills.

The next Sunday, I was back at Santula. No kills were reported during the week as the villagers were on constant alert. I was sure that the leopard would be quite hungry and would not be far from the village. Calves were not allowed to wander around and all school going was stopped as mothers kept their little kids indoors.

That night, Ignesh and I decided to patrol the vicinity of the village in a grid pattern, traversing the numerous cattle and game trails that abounded in the area. It was early June and the rains were in full swing.

Then we had a bit of luck! It must now have been nearly four a.m. and we were very near the village. Ignesh was leading with the flashlight off as it was light enough to see a little now. Turning a corner we nearly stumbled on a leopard that had just walked on to the path. We halted, and Ignesh was very quick; he had the animal pinned down in the powerful beam of the five cell torch. For some reason the leopard halted briefly and looked over his shoulder. I could see him clearly. He was a big male with only one ear, and he had his left paw lifted off the ground. I could see that it was damaged. All this flashed through my senses in a split second and I instinctively aimed at a spot behind his non-existent left ear and pulled the trigger.

There was a ‘click!’ And in a bound the animal jumped into the shrubs bordering the path. It was a misfire! We trudged back to the village, disappointed, and with me cursing my bad luck!  

However, it was established that the leopard was indeed a male, and that it was injured in the front left paw and it was big. Still, I was not clear as to why he never went after bigger game.

We returned to Hope that very morning. I tried my luck subsequently over the next two weeks but completely failed to spot him. There were no further kills reported. Maybe the rifle shot scared him away. Thus I failed to get the 'three legged terror’ of Santula village! However, he met his end in a very strange way.

The Senior Assistant had by now returned from leave, and there was an addition to the family! We were to have a celebration dinner and therefore needed some ‘provisions’. So the evening before we decided to get ourselves some venison. Strictly against the law! However, the Wildlife Act of 1972 was not yet passed and we could take liberties. We set off that night driving down the same Jhoolong Road. About a few kilometers past the Chapramari forest bungalow, we saw the blue eyes of a couple of hog deer on the right side of the road, some 30 yards inside the forest.  My colleague was shining the spotlight and I got out of the car and fired. I saw the hog deer drop, and Ignesh and I walked towards it to drag it in.

All this while, the spot light was focused on the area. As we neared the spot where I thought the deer had dropped, we were suddenly in pitch darkness! Somehow the spot light had gone off. I did not even have a torch in my hand. Suddenly, there was a growl right in front of me and in a reflex action I let loose both barrels! I could hear a bit of thrashing around, and then absolute silence.

My colleague had by then managed to get the light back on. Going forward carefully, we stumbled across the dead hog deer! I sent Ignesh back to the car for a torch, and on his return we cast around for some signs of what I felt was an injured leopard. All we saw was a trail of blood leading off into the scrub. It would have been foolhardy to follow up at night and we returned to the garden with the deer, determined to track the leopard the next day.

Bill Douglas had pushed off on furlough and Dharam Chugh was ‘acting’ for him. It was unfortunately a working day, and I had to cajole Dharam to let me off for a few hours to go and track the injured animal. He very sportingly agreed! Ignesh and I were back at the spot at six a.m. having spent a pretty sleepless night. We readily found the dried blood trail, as it had not rained during this period.

After nearly an hour of slow tracking, we came to a deep rivulet. The leopard was apparently making for water, and sure enough we saw him hunched over at the edge. As I was about to let fly, Ignesh held my hand and stopped me. 

It seemed dead! Its head was under water. It must have collapsed just as it was about to drink. We cautiously walked up to within ten yards and I signaled Ignesh to throw some stones at it. One can never be too cautious. It never moved when a stone struck it on the flank.

Going up to it, we dragged it out of the water, and lo and behold! The 'three legged terror of Santula village’ lay dead at our feet! On examination, the mystery of why it did not go after bigger game was solved. Apart from a badly mangled left front paw which must have got caught in a wire trap, the end of the lower jaw was missing! It seemed that at some time, a lucky shot from a muzzle loader must have blown the end off his lower jaw along with the two incisors. This prevented him grasping his prey, and the mangled front left paw- - sans all flesh and claws -- was useless to him in hunting. He was, to boot, a very old specimen as all his molars were ground down. My double blast with the shot gun had partially caught him in the left shoulder, breaking it. The left leg also had a pellet or two and was broken just above the joint. A few pellets seem to have pierced the chest and damaged the lung. However, with all this he had dragged himself two km to the river finally to succumb.

Later I sent Ignesh back with two of his henchmen to bury the carcass.  As advised by me, Ignesh cut off the ear to be presented to the parents of the little girl, proof of the ‘Terror’s’ demise!

The Three Legged Terror of Santula Busty

by Krupa David

No! This was not a monster from outer space! It was a cunning leopard, which held sway over an entire village and its surrounding jungle, for over six months. This episode was in 1970, when I was posted in Hope T.E.

Santula Busty comprised of about twenty to thirty hutments built by displaced Nepalese from Bhutan who had crossed over and settled on Government Forest land about twenty odd kilometers on the Jhoolong road and west into the forest bordering Bhutan, about  five kilometers from the main road. This was a ‘cattle patti’ as the main occupation was rearing cattle (mostly mixed breed Holsteins and Friesians) and selling milk and milk products. There was no road linking this village but one could park the vehicle on the main road to the Hydel Project and walk the 5 km. I got to know them well, as many a weekend I would camp the night there after a day’s shooting.

One afternoon, whilst I was having my usual post lunch a lie back, my paniwallah knocked on the door and informed me that someone had come to see me. I was quite annoyed at being woken up from my siesta! Half an hour was all that we would get post lunch after a long day which started at six a.m. and which could go on to midnight if one had factory duty! I went out and saw a cowherd whom I knew from Santula Busty standing near the kitchen. Coming forward he salaamed and said “Hazoor, hamro gaon ma rakshash aako cha” (a devil/shaitan has entered our village) “What Rakshash?” I asked? “Bagh, Huzoor” he said. Now, ‘bagh’ is a common term that these people use for a Panther or Tiger.

He came out with the shocking story of a small girl aged about three years being carried away last month. The second incident was two weeks ago when a small boy again around four to five years of age was carried off right in front of his mother from the courtyard of their house at around seven pm. The third incident had taken place the previous evening  - when another small girl was lifted.

I was quite sceptical about this story as I was confident that leopards as a rule do not add human beings to their diet, especially around tea gardens. However, the cowherd assured me that indeed it was the doing of a ‘bagh’ as they found remains of two of the children and the mother had actually glimpsed the ‘bagh’ when it carried off the child. They had reported the matter to the police and the forest department but apparently no action was being taken as this was an unauthorized settlement.  

Promptly on Saturday morning (cajoled leave off the Manager!) armed with my .405 Winchester, we set off. My bearer packed up my stuff for an overnight stay. Two flash lights, the smaller one to clamp on to my rifle. Paratha rolls, flask of coffee, condensed milk, mosquito repellent, a loaf of bread, cheese/packet of butter, and six boiled eggs! Fresh chicken and mutton was always on the house i.e. Santula Busty!

I loaded everything onto my Ford V8, a big car bought from Jock McRae of Leesh River for 2,800 rupees! This was a 36H.P, monster a 1946 model and with most of the horses either dead or maimed! When I got married in 1972, Jyoti gave it one look and said, ‘either it is me or this ugly monstrosity –choose!!’ The choice was difficult but I decided to sell it off! By then it was in such shape that no one in his or her right mind would have bought it! Shamyal Babu of Nagrakata was persuaded to buy it for 500 rupees. The condition was that I pay him for towing it away! This was adding insult to injury.  I begged Bill to lend me a tractor to tow it down to Nagrakata. I loved this piece of junk. And it frequently broke down. Larry Brown, the Engineer Sahib at Bhogotpore, was my advisor on how to go about fixing it!

A present day image of the hydel project on the Jaldhaka river at the Bhutan border.  Pix from the internet

 I left at 5a.m. on a Saturday with my trusted shikari from No.2 line, Ignesh. He was a shikari par excellence. He was as tall as me whipcord thin and an excellent archer. (I have seen him in a beat , knocking down a running wild boar with a shaft through its neck, after the three guns who had a go at it, Donald Mackenzie, Ginger Craig and I, missed every shot!.) We reached the spot where I usually parked my car in an hour’s time. Gathering all my belongings we trudged the five odd kilometers to the village, arriving at around 7.30 a.m.

Ignesh was also trained by me to do some rudimentary cooking on our jaunts.  We were housed in a hut lent to us by the ‘headman’ of the settlement, Maila Pradhan. Out came the frying pan and soon I was seated on a log with a plate of fried eggs and my parathas! Ignesh preferred his egg boiled.

And thus we sat in companionable silence finishing our breakfast. Ignesh, by the way was also the Union leader of my division. Therefore it was a strategic alliance! I wished Dipu Rawat was with us. Dipu was the senior assistant at Hope and my Shikar companion. However Dipu and Meera were on leave.

Post breakfast we met some of the village elders and the little girl’s parents. After listening to their story, I assumed that this was a very small leopard and that was why it was targeting smaller prey. However the mother insisted that it was huge. The dimensions given to me would have put even the largest tiger to shame! The only thing to do now was to visit the spot and see for myself the spot where the remains were found.

Soon we were there and I could see nothing but bits of the little girl’s clothing and one rubber chappal. Casting around I was surprised to see the pug marks of the killer. It was apparent from the pugs  that the animal was indeed a big male leopard  - and only three pug marks were visible, there was just a faint impression where the fourth was.  

We retraced our steps and I decided to come back and sit up for the leopard at around four o’clock on the off chance that it may came back that evening. Now the leopard is a far more cunning creature that the tiger and one has to be extra careful in not giving any sign of one’s presence.

It was by now about midday and I suggested to Ignesh that he build my machan on a nearby Jarul tree from where I had a vantage view of the path and the spot where the body had lain.

At four, I was securely ensconced in my machan which was unobservable from all sides due to the heavy foliage of the Jarul. I had my water bottle, flask of coffee and my two flash lights. I was using my .405 but was not happy. For a leopard at close quarters a shot gun was ideal - loaded with L.G, this has tremendous stopping power at twenty yards and is a bone breaker.  

 It was the month of May and the afternoon was hot! Keeping still and motionless made it all the more uncomfortable. The air was still and not a breath of breeze was evident, not a jungle sound. It seemed that even the birds were in a deep stupor on this hot summer afternoon! Although sitting up over a kill is regarded by many as an irksome and tiring ordeal, to me it has always been a source of considerable pleasure, and perhaps this is because I am, above all else, a lover of nature!

Soon it was getting cooler and I heard the first Junglee Moorgi call followed by the “meaoo!” of a peafowl. Of the leopard there was no trace. A flock of ‘seven sisters’ alighted on a branch of the neighboring tree. They were in all probability regarding my hideout suspiciously! I knew that if they espied me, all would be over as they would get into a frenzy of raucous calls and alert everyone and especially the leopard.  

(to be continued)

  

Editor's note : 

shikari - hunter
shikar -hunting
machan - a platform built in a tree, originally used in hunting, and now for watching wildlife in reserves. 

junglee moorgee - wild fowl

Meet the writer: 

Krupa David with his wife Jyotsna

Krupa David : 'Joined Tea with Duncan Bros in 1969. The sterling companies split with Duncans and formed Goodricke Group.I remained with Goodrickes.In 1984 came to Calcutta as a V.A. In 1993 became Director and from 1991 January, took over the Group (Goodricke Group Limited, ,Amgoorie India Limited and Stewart Hall India Limited) as Managing Director.Retired on 01.01.2008.'